Читать книгу Devoted to Drew - Loree Lough - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

“MOMMY?”

Bianca turned down the volume on the tiny kitchen TV. It had been Drew’s idea to leave it on while he did homework. “I have to learn to work with distractions around me,” he’d said on the first day of school. Amazingly, he’d been right.

She tucked her pen into the checkbook register and traded it for the math assignment he held.

“Finished my homework page,” he said.

Not an easy feat, she thought, tears in her eyes. “You answered every question correctly, and it’s so nice and neat. I’m so proud of you!”

A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he studied her face. “Then...then why are you sad?”

“Oh, honey, I’m not sad. These are happy tears. I’m happy because...” Because you’re looking at me. Straight into my eyes and seeing me! She got up, walked to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him. “Because I love you so, so much!”

Drew groaned good-naturedly. “I know. Love you, too.”

Her three favorite words. He’d been reciting them since before he could walk. They had always sounded hollow, robotic, anything but sincere...until about six months ago, when his facial expressions and voice proved he meant them. How far he’d come since September!

“Can I have a snack break before I do my spelling homework?”

“What would you rather have—string cheese or apple slices?”

“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” he bellowed.

Bianca laughed. “Okay, how about a healthy snack now and ice cream when your homework is finished?”

He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do—string cheese or apple slices.”

“Apple slices will get my pencil sticky,” he said, hopping toward the fridge.

She went back to balancing the checkbook, and he went back to his assignment. His willingness to cooperate made it hard to believe he’d been misbehaving in class. Bianca thought about her recent conversation with Mrs. Peterson. “Is something going on at home, Mrs. Wright,” the teacher wanted to know, “that will help me understand why he’s acting out?”

Months before his first day of school, Bianca had hand-delivered Drew’s file and spent hours defining every test, explaining every result, listing every specialist who’d evaluated Drew and their every conclusion. There were photos. Charts. CDs and DVDs of sessions with occupational, speech and behavioral therapists. She’d been deliberately thorough, for the very reason Mrs. Peterson had mentioned during the meeting: so his teacher would better understand Drew. “He isn’t acting out at home,” she’d wanted to shout, “so maybe the problem is at school!”

Instead, she’d said, “You’re too busy teaching and monitoring the other children to keep an eye on Drew every single minute.” Bianca promised to spend a lot more time in the classroom so that hopefully, she’d notice something—anything—that would explain Drew’s behavior. Because when all was said and done, only one thing mattered: Drew.

She took her son’s hands in hers. “So how’s school these days, sweetie?”

His pupils dilated before he looked quickly away. And when he started bobbing his head and chanting “school, school, school,” Bianca had all the proof she needed that home was not the source of the problem.

She adopted a deliberately sing-song tone to break the cycle. “Drew. Honey. Tell Mommy what’s going on at school.”

An article in Autism Advocate explained that kids could sidetrack themselves from stemming, that distracting tendency of autistics to flap their hands, bob their heads and any one of a dozen other repetitive actions. When she explained how the process worked, Drew came up with his own distraction tactics. Dancing, not spinning; jumping instead of running; watching a video to stop himself from staring at lights. It had been months since he’d learned that sitting on his hands put a stop to hand flapping. Longer still since he’d bobbed his head once he figured out that touching his chin to his chest controlled the urge. Yet there he sat, doing both, and it seemed he’d forgotten how to stop himself. Her heart ached, knowing she’d caused it with her ill-timed question.

Then an idea sparked, and she went with it. “What is the boy’s name?”

When Drew looked up, his expression said, How did you know it was a boy?

“It’s okay,” she said, scooting her chair closer. “What’s the boy’s name?”

“His name is Joseph. Joseph is his name. Joseph is the new kid.”

Proceed with caution, Bianca thought. Putting ideas in his head to get the information she needed wouldn’t help Drew in the long run.

“What can you tell me about Joseph the new kid?”

“I don’t like Joseph.” Drew sat on his hands but continued shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, sitting taller, “he butts in line and pushes people down and takes other kids’ stuff.” Drew paused, then pursed his lips. “Joseph kicks. And hits. And uses potty words all the time.” Frowning, he rested his chin on his chest. “Mrs. Peterson never sees Joseph do any of that. She only sees me get mad when he does it.”

Her maternal instinct was strong, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and promise she’d put a stop to Joseph’s bullying. But her desire to help Drew was stronger.

“And you know what else?”

“What else, sweetie?”

“Joseph calls me Flappity Weirdster Weirdo,” Drew grumbled. Eyes narrowed, his little hands formed tight fists. “And you know what else?”

“What...”

“He bites. Hard.”

Bianca gently rolled up his shirt sleeves and stifled a gasp as she saw half a dozen crescent-shaped bruises on each slender forearm.

She wanted to slap Joseph silly. Slap the teacher, too, for allowing this to happen to her sweet boy. Heart pounding, she grit her teeth. Oh, you are going to get such a piece of my mind, Mrs. Peterson!

The poignant music of a Save the Animals commercial wafted from the television, drawing Drew’s attention, and it seemed to Bianca that the abused dogs’ and cats’ forlorn expressions mirrored her son’s mood. She tried to comfort him with a hug, but he stiffened and pulled away.

“Wish I had a daddy who loved me,” he said.

Did he yearn for a superhero-type dad who’d storm the school, demanding protection for his little boy? Or simply someone to tell him that he hadn’t invited—and certainly didn’t deserve—Joseph’s malicious treatment?

Drew stared at the TV as a new commercial appeared on the screen, and in this one, Logan Murray’s friendly face smiled out at them.

“Autism Service Dogs of America,” he said, “was founded to improve the lives of kids who need a little help....”

She’d heard of the organization and had looked in to getting a dog for Drew. When she had learned that it could cost in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars, she’d closed the book on that area of autism research. Not that the dogs weren’t worth the price—for the right families—but Bianca wasn’t the type to organize a fund-raiser, appealing to friends, family, neighbors and coworkers to help defray the cost.

She’d read Logan’s bio cover to cover and knew that it contained a long and varied list of charities. When had he become affiliated with ASDA?

Drew pointed. “Why couldn’t I have a dad like that?”

She hoped he wouldn’t repeat his rendition of Daddy Didn’t Love Me. If she hadn’t figured out why some parents—fathers, mostly—couldn’t cope with autism, how could she explain it to her little boy?

Now Logan squatted and draped an arm around a happy-faced labradoodle. “Isn’t that right, Poe?”

When the dog answered with a breathy woof, Drew’s entire demeanor changed.

“Look, Mom! That dog is smiling!”

The only smile Bianca noticed was Drew’s.

“Can I have a dog, Mom? That man said it would be good for a kid like me.”

A kid like him. She grinned at his ability to make the connection. “We’ve talked about this before, remember? We can’t have a dog because Grandmom is allergic to them.”

His shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” But he perked up when the curly-haired mutt walked off-screen. “But—but—but—but Mrs. Peterson has a dog like that. I saw the picture on her desk.” He paused. “And she’s allergic.”

His grandmother’s sensitivity to fur and dander had almost been a blessing in disguise, giving Bianca a good excuse to avoid housebreaking and training a dog and cleaning up after it. Still, if she could find one like the curly-haired mutt grinning into the camera now, she might think about it.

She didn’t dare admit such a thing, of course, because in Drew’s mind, anything but a flat-out no was a bona fide commitment, one he’d obsess about until something else came along to take the place of his desire for a dog. Bianca decided to divert his attention before mild curiosity turned into fixation.

“Did Mrs. Peterson give you any other homework?”

“She said ‘Study for a spelling quiz tomorrow, boys and girls!’” He started reading his list of words as Logan recited the charity’s contact information. The camera zoomed in on his face. “The kids need you. Tell ’em, Poe.” And right on cue, the tail-wagging dog barked.

“Mom, can we at least think about getting a dog?”

She picked up the spelling list. “How about you finish your homework, and maybe then we can talk about thinking about it.”

“Great. More ‘Grandmom is allergic’ talk.” Drew sighed heavily. “Sometimes,” he said, “that mother of yours is so exasperating.”

“Exasperating,” she echoed, mussing his hair. “Do you know what it means?”

“Frustrating, annoying, maddening...”

No wonder every specialist called him The Little Professor, she thought as he assigned a new synonym to each of his fingertips.

Grinning, Bianca started Drew’s favorite supper. She grabbed mac and cheese and tomato soup from the pantry and thought about how, in nursery school and pre-K, the county had assigned him to class settings designed specifically for children on the autism spectrum. Almost immediately Drew had sensed that his learning deficiencies weren’t as severe as most of his classmates. In typical Drew fashion, he began gathering data, and one day, halfway through his kindergarten year, he put his self-assessment into words: “I can do lots of things those other kids can’t do, and I know stuff they don’t know.” He’d stopped flapping and crossed both arms over his chest to add, “And I control myself way, way better, too.” Chin up, he met her eyes. “I think it’s time for me to go to regular school.”

So Bianca met with his pediatrician, his teacher and the school principal and guidance counselor. Thanks to a school board member whose granddaughter was on the spectrum, the team decided to give Drew a chance. His academic performance and personal conduct would be closely monitored. If it was determined that his behavior distracted fellow students, or that he couldn’t keep up with curriculum, back to special sessions he’d go. She gave him a lot of credit because he’d held his own...until Joseph was introduced to the mix.

Bianca watched him, eyes squinted in concentration as he whispered “Mother. M-O-T-H-E-R.” He repeated the process with all twelve words on his list.

“Hey, Mom. Can you do two things at once?”

“Depends what the two things are,” she said, stirring elbow noodles into the boiling water.

“Can you mix noodles and test me?”

She turned down the heat under the pot and sat beside him. One by one, she read the words aloud, and one by one, he spelled them. “Great job, honey!” she said when he finished. “You got every single one right!”

“Does that mean I can turn the TV up now?”

Bianca winked. “Okay, but only until I get supper on the table.” She gave the macaroni a quick stir, then grabbed three plates and a handful of silverware as the exact same commercial came on, again.

Logan, looking all handsome and savvy in neatly creased black trousers and a pale blue shirt that brought out the green in his eyes.

“Ninny,” she grumbled. “Why would you notice something like that?”

Bianca blamed it on the tiny café table that had put them nearly nose to nose at the coffee shop. Or the sunshine streaming in through the windows that made his eyes glitter like sea glass. Or the long, dark lashes that—

“Look, Mom,” Drew said, tugging at her sleeve, “it’s him again.” He narrowed one eye. “Say...isn’t he the guy who played a cop in that DVD we watched with Grandmom the other night?”

Bianca’s mother walked into the room and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Why, Drew,” Maddy said, looking over his shoulder at the television, “you’re absolutely right. That’s Logan Murray, and he did play the part of the cop who helped Mr. Action save Grand City.” She kissed the top of his head. “Your mom is friends with him. Maybe she can get you his autograph.”

Drew’s eyebrows disappeared beneath thick blond bangs. “Whoa. Mom.” He shot her an admiring glance. “You know him? For real?”

“Easy, you two,” she said, laughing. “I booked him for The Morning Show a couple of times, that’s all.” She remembered the feel of his big warm hands as he draped his jacket over her shoulders.

“Well,” Maddy said, “maybe friend was too strong a word.”

“But you really, really know him?”

“Yes, Drew.” Her brain conjured the image of Logan nodding attentively as she rambled on and on about her only child. “But only in a professional capacity.”

“Professional capacity,” he echoed. “Does that mean you could ask him how we could get one of those dogs?” He grinned up at Maddy. “Don’t worry, Grandmom,” he said, “we’ll find one that won’t make your eyes swell shut.”

As Drew’s attention returned to the commercial, Bianca caught her mom’s gaze and mouthed, Let’s talk later, okay?

Maddy squatted beside Drew’s chair. “I have a bunch of shopping bags in my trunk,” she said, mussing his hair. “After supper, will you help me bring them in?”

His eyes never left the screen. “Mmm-hmm.”

Rising, Maddy faced her daughter. “So tell me...is he as charming and handsome in real life as he is on the big screen?” She glanced at the television. “And the small screen?”

As a matter of fact, she thought Logan was more attractive in person than on film, but admitting it would only invite a volley of requests for autographs for her friends...and a repeat performance of “Honey, Jason died three years ago!”

Bianca did her best to sound indifferent. “I wouldn’t say that.” She dished mac and cheese onto three plates. “Supper’s almost ready, Drew. Time to wash your hands.”

He rose slowly and walked toward the powder room. “A dog for Drew,” he said. “A dog for Drew. A dog for Drew!”

Maddy waited until he was out of earshot. “Good heavens, Bianca, how are you going to talk him out of this dog idea?”

“I may not have to,” she began. “I’ve heard good things about these canine companion/autism kid partnerships. Sometimes, if people volunteer to foster these dogs, the agencies bypass the fees. I’ll need to do more research before talking with Drew, of course, but if I can work it out...” She met her mother’s eyes. “But what about you?”

“What about me? If there’s really a breed out there that won’t make my eyes swell shut,” she said, quoting Drew, “I see no harm in it. Every boy needs a dog.”

“But everything will be different with a furry four-legged kid in the house.”

Maddy ladled tomato soup into bowls. “We’ll need to make some adjustments, of course. But you know, I think a pet will be good for all of us. It’ll give Drew something to focus on besides those ridiculous electronic gizmos of his.”

He did spend an inordinate amount of time with handheld games and such, Bianca admitted to herself as she filled Drew’s glass with milk.

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” Maddy continued, “but it gets lonely around here when you’re at work and Drew is in school. Might be nice to have a warm body around that enjoys affection.”

Bianca couldn’t argue. Drew participated in physical affection—if she was careful not to overdo it—but barely ever hugged his grandmother. All in good time, she thought. Hopefully.

“Bianca...since you need to find out more about these helper dogs anyway, have you considered asking Logan Murray to help?”

“He’s the organization’s commercial spokesperson, Mom. He might not know anything that might help us.”

“How will you know unless you ask?”

Drew hopped into the room, grabbed his napkin and rolled it into a tube. “Grandmom is right,” he said through it. “Like you’re always telling me...you won’t know unless you ask.”

Laughing, Bianca rolled her eyes. “Two against one isn’t fair!”

“Something else you keep saying and saying and saying... ‘Life isn’t always fair.’”

She picked up her napkin and waved it like a white flag. “I surrender. Now, can we eat before everything gets cold?”

If she’d known her son and her mom would spend the rest of the meal discussing Logan Murray, Bianca would have a popped a movie into the DVD player and served pizza for supper instead.